


kairos

by Kalopsia



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan
Genre: Alternate Ending, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-18
Updated: 2013-10-18
Packaged: 2017-12-29 19:27:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1009154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalopsia/pseuds/Kalopsia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Yeah. Son of Hades and all. Can’t possibly know anything about <i>death.”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	kairos

**Author's Note:**

> The basis of this comes from me having to write an essay but wanting to write fic instead. Much editing and combining of some other bits and pieces, this happened. 
> 
> Enjoy! c:

i.

_We are the hollow men_  
We are the stuffed men  
Leaning together  
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!

i.

All too often, the gods like to play tricks, and amid the checker pieces and the cards are the demigods. Sitting loud and proud, acting like Kings and Queens in the bodies of mere pawns. The gods love watching them suffer, giving them hope at the last possible second to keep them alive and extend their suffering for as long as possible.

Among the multitudes of half-bloods were the Three. The subject of many a prophecy and much enjoyment of the gods.

Chess pieces.

Percy Jackson: The raven-haired son of Poseidon. He possesses more power than even he was aware of, and the gods were all too eager to let him stay as ignorant as he was. His mind and body had been tortured to its last thread, but the joy of his suffering was still entertaining to any deity. _Bored? Oh, yes, that Jackson boy. I’ve got a quest for him._

Jason Grace: The blonde-haired son of Jupiter. The exception to their rule, for anybody who messed with Jupiter was meant for cruel things. No fun in Jason. No fun at all.

Nico di Angelo: The boy eternally dead. Heart wrapped up in someone he could never have, which made Aphrodite giggle each time his name was mentioned, usually in no more than a whisper. Even the dead could hear, as they had learned the hard way. The shadows were the best listeners, after all.

The pieces were all set. Percy, in Tartarus practically joined at the hip with the blonde daughter of Athena. Jason, on the ship, honing his penultimate power in a vain attempt to save the day again.

And Nico, the poor, broken angel who believed he could help.

The pawns were in place, and the immortals were ready to play.

ii.

_Our dried voices, when_  
We whisper together  
Are quiet and meaningless  
As wind in dry grass  
Or rats' feet over broken glass  
In our dry cellar

ii.

He wakes up screaming.

The flickers of a nightmare are scattered at the edge of his vision, just out of sight, and Nico forces himself to breathe as he sits up. The memories of Tartarus are shouting too quietly in his mind, all the terror there with none of the tangibility of a memory.

It kills him all the more to know the terrors of what Percy was going through, but being unable to truly relate. Gone were the flashes of glass sand and acidic air. Gone were the memories of fiery water and rebirthing monsters. Fading with every breath Nico took, all that was left was the sheer terror every step in the depths of hell had caused him. And that was enough to send him shrieking into the night.

He tosses aside the covers to his bed and leaves the room. He can feel the shadows reaching for his skin as he makes his way to the upper deck, but they mean nothing to him now. If he wanted, he could disappear into them. He could end up as close to Percy as he could be without being in Tartarus itself, but-

But something stops him.

He doesn’t know what, exactly. All he knows is that it hurts, and it’d begun the second he stepped into Tartarus and hasn’t gone away since.

He sighs and pushes a hand through his hair as he steps outside. The biting wind clears his mind, and the shadows of the darkened sky were more comforting than those inside the ship.

Stepping to the bow of the ship, he leans over as far as he can and watches the lights zip by below. It doesn’t feel like they’re going fast, but then again, magical flying demigod ships travel differently than anything else, or, at least, Nico assumes they do.

Besides, they aren’t going nearly fast enough to reach the entrance to the Doors of Death on time. He’d struggled through Tartarus for days, maybe even weeks, before he reached them. But once he was there, he never wanted to go back. If anything happened, they’d be trapped amidst the very center of Gaia’s army with no help on the other side.

Thinking of Percy there, of all the things he’d have to face before he went insane or-

_Don’t, Nico,_ he thinks to himself. _He’s alive. You know it- you’d feel it if he weren’t._

After Tartarus, though, he isn’t so sure. Everything had been a bit messed up since he’d gotten out, as far as Nico’s well-being went. He couldn’t breathe properly, and every nightmare had increased in vividness until he couldn’t tell the difference between sleep and reality. His powers did not seem to cooperate, and all too often he’d give himself a headache trying to summon the dead that he used to have trouble controlling.

But none of that mattered. The only thing that did was getting Percy back alive, _before_ he died- or went insane.

And, as much as Nico hates to admit it, both were equally likely possibilities.

The scene plays over and over again in Nico’s mind, _“Percy!”_ as he fell, the way his head had hit the concrete as all the energy he’d gained in the past few minutes simply left his body. The way his muscles had been bunching up to jump in after them, because he would- he really, really would, if it meant Percy would be okay-

The way he’d been dragged back, still screaming the demigod’s name ‘til his throat was raw and his voice was nothing more than a whisper.

Annabeth didn’t even occur to him until her name was first mentioned on the ship. Hazel looked dazed and Piper tried in vain to comfort them, but even her charmspeak was unable to break through the sadness that plagued them all. They’d lost the two most important people on this quest, and they all knew it.

Sighing, the child of the Death returns to his room, wishing, at the very least, for a friend that doesn’t look at him with caution-laced eyes.

iii.

_Shape without form, shade without colour,  
Paralysed force, gesture without motion_

iii.

The second he gets to his room, he locks the door and sobs, praying to any god that would listen that Leo had somehow made the room soundproof, because as impartial and aloof Nico appeared to be, he was in more pain than he’d ever admit to.

He aches with the residue of Tartarus, of the unimaginable horrors he keeps remembering but can never quite recall, with the sting of rejection from his father, from Bianca, from _Percy freaking Jackson_ , who he’s maybe-kinda-sorta head-over-heels in love with, too. His heart beats with the eternal adrenaline of running from things he still has to convince himself can't hurt him anymore, but even now he isn't sure. He’d had Percy, Percy had had Annabeth, and Nico had the gall to believe that things were maybe gonna be okay- and both of them were ripped away in a matter of seconds. They had been _so close,_ and now they were gone.

His pillow accepts his sobs and the shadows listened, ever-present.

The boat sails on, and Nico cries.

iv.

_Those who have crossed_  
With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom  
Remember us—if at all—not as lost  
Violent souls, but only  
As the hollow men  
The stuffed men.

iv.

Above all, he hates his father. Nico thinks Hades is the most despicable person to have ever lived, who will ever live.

And still he craves the acceptance his father will never give. Even after the years of training, the deceit of his friends, the death of his own _sister_ and aiding Percy in Titan War, he has never once been praised by his father.

The dead are at his command, or at least, they had been once. Now, he struggles to bring them from the ground and take even more effort to send them back. His own mind is waging a war against him, as if the one against Gaia weren’t enough. He can feel the shadows aching to send him away as far as they can, and sometimes Nico almost lets them. The dead are constantly at the edge of his mind, a buzz that has grown from a comforting noise to a dreadful responsibility. Begging for forgiveness, for favors, for Nico to _save us, please, bring us back, like you did for Hazel Levesque._

He can’t stand it. He’s sick of being a plaything of the dead. Everybody asking favors, everybody wanting things he cannot give.

He tries to sleep, but the souls who pass through the depths of the Earth to the Underworld also brush against Nico, and he can feel each and every one of them. When he was younger, newly exposed to his power, they used to send the hairs on his arms up with goosebumps. Now, they’re nothing more than an everlasting and unwelcome chill.

He does not know who these passing souls are, nor does he want to. He can feel their empty desire for the real world and he can do nothing about it. Occasionally, he’ll feel the utter despair of one who was ripped away from the living too soon. Those hurt the most, those are the souls that make his toes curl. He hates them, more than the others, for these are the ones he can feel pleading to be remembered, above all else. Just to be remembered, even in a stranger’s mind.

Nico doesn’t want to be remembered. He just wants to live.

v.

_Eyes I dare not meet in dreams_  
In death's dream kingdom  
These do not appear:  
There, the eyes are  
Sunlight on a broken column

v.

Although he dresses in black and, yes, is the son of Hades, and yeah, can sense death, Nico generally does all he can to disassociate himself from it. The souls don’t help, and neither does the skull ring on his left hand, but he figures he can give into the stereotype at least a little bit. Besides, he’s got enough to deal with from the constant breath of previous people in his mind. He doesn’t need to look approachable. Not when you’re the only thing that the dead can sense, and the thing, (person?), they’re drawn to most.

Even in sleep, when he isn’t being plagued by the constant nightmares of Tartarus, he is blessed with the horrors of souls. Sometimes, and more so now than B.T., (Before Tartarus), they’ll breach the walls he’s spent so long putting up and pry their way into his subconscious. He’ll dream of people he’s never met, of places he’s never been, of calming lives and dirty secrets. He’ll wake with the breath of a name on his tongue, a soft whisper of _remember_ scrawled across the memory that is already fading in his mind. He cannot possibly be the gatekeeper for the memories of hundreds of thousands of people who desperately want him to, he _can’t,_ but he tries anyway.

Sometimes he’ll write letters. He’ll scribble out every detail he can remember from the moment of their lives he’s gotten before it starts to blend with somebody else’s. He’ll sign it to a stranger from a messenger of the unknown. He’ll seal it with wax and drop it over the edge of the ship, not caring where it lands but hoping it ends up somewhere safe.

Other times, he’ll sketch out some doodle that resembles a mess of lines more than an actual image. And yet, he can tell what it is, and he’ll fold it into an airplane and send that over the edge of the boat, too. Sometimes, if it’s late and he’s alone and his powers obeying at least relatively, he’ll send the paper plane down a shadow. He won’t watch it fall.

It’s the least he can do, because he tries to be good. He really, really does, even if the world doesn’t want him to be.

vi.

There, is a tree swinging  
And voices are  
In the wind's singing  
More distant and more solemn  
Than a fading star.

vi.

He gets turned into a plant, gets unknowingly neglected by the others, gets his heart wrenched out of the cranny it had been nestled in for so long while that _stupid_ son of Jupiter watched.

He was breaking, and with each dreadful glance the others sent each other when left alone for even a moment with him, a new crack was appearing. He couldn’t stand it, and if something didn’t change he was going to let himself fall over the bow of the ship and laugh on the way down.

And then, one night, there was a dream that wasn’t sent from the depths of hell or somebody else’s desire. It was his, and it was the blessedly cool river in the desert of fire.

It was Percy, calling his name, _Nico’s_ name, and it sounded happy. Nothing like the pitiful tone he usually used. And he was congratulating him on saving them from Tartarus. They were hugging, and Nico’s heart was swelling so much he could feel his grin about to split his face in half.

And then it was shimmering away, but instead of switching to another nightmare he was kneeling in front of his father. His sword was placed in front of him, and when he lifted his head and peered through his too-long hair, he could see the vague outline of a smile on Hades’ face.

He didn’t say anything, but the lack of ice in his eyes and the approving nod were more than enough. Nico bowed his head again and the dream changed once more.

He was at Camp Half-Blood, but instead of the wrinkled noses at his constant sulfuric scent, and the glares as the hateful aura rolled off his shoulders he usually received, there were smiles. There were calls of, _“Good job, Nico!”_ , and, _“Congratulations!”_. Some even hugged him, and he felt bad for not knowing their names. Never had Nico felt happier.

He wakes to the waning sounds of praise, greeted only by the darkness of his room. He rolls over and cries out into his pillow, _why can’t it be real- just once?_

vii.

_Is it like this_  
In death's other kingdom  
Waking alone  
At the hour when we are  
Trembling with tenderness  
Lips that would kiss  
Form prayers to broken stone.

vii.

As they walk to their inevitable deaths, Nico recalls something he’s forgotten for so very long. It was after the Titan War, when the guilt weighing on Percy’s back was a stone he could not carry. Nico could sympathize, because he was the only one among the living who could bear the weight of all the dead’s guilt before them.

He’d gone to visit Percy, one lonely night not two weeks after Kronos’ defeat. He remembers shadow traveling into the bathroom, (aiming for the front door, dammit), but not caring about his aim after seeing Percy leaning against the bathtub. If he weren’t breathing so hard, Nico would’ve thought he was asleep. He gives a soft cough, and Percy’s eyes snap open, hand brushing against his pocket until he realizes who exactly is standing before him.

His eyes were sunk deep into his skull, normally green eyes now dark as coal in the shadows. He was wearing only a pair of pajamas bottoms, and Nico could count each of his individual ribs. It made him nauseous just to look at him.

“Hi,” he said, his voice cracking as if it hadn’t been used in ages.

Percy just stared at him. Nico could see the ghosts of guilt in his eyes and wanted to take it away. He doesn’t want him to feel this way- Nico doesn’t wish the burdens of the dead on anybody.

“I-” Nico had to swallow before he continued. He's exhausted, as if he were the one to have led the battle of Olympus, not the other way around. “I want to say- I know how you feel. And- I- I know you don’t think I do, and- and I know. I know I can’t _really_ know how you feel. But. Their deaths? Silena and Charlie and-”

He had to pause while Percy dashed back to the toilet, and Nico didn't follow him in until the noises of sick cease.

When he does, he took a seat on the edge of the bathtub and put his head in his palms. “I do know how you feel, though.”

Percy gripped the toilet seat so hard his knuckles go white. “ _You_. Cannot _possibly_. Know how I feel.”

Nico didn't say anything for a long, long while. When he speaks, his voice sounded bitter, even to his own ears. “Yeah. Son of Hades and all. Can’t possibly know anything about _death.”_

Percy leaned back and sat on his heels. “Why are you here, Nico?”

“You aren’t alone,” he said. “I- _I_ forgive you, even if you can’t forgive yourself.”

There’s a pause, and then- “Please don’t blame yourself. I swear it’s not your fault. Don’t feel guilty.”

The son of Death could see the emotions battling across Percy’s face. Guilt and sadness and despair and hatred and fury- all there, fighting furiously for dominance. He opened his mouth as if to scream, but nothing came out.

“S’not that easy,” He said.

Nico gave a soft laugh that lacked warmth and said, “I know. Believe me, I know.”

viii.

_In this last of meeting places_  
We grope together  
And avoid speech  
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river

viii.

They arrive at the Doors of Death and everything goes downhill from there.

From the moment they step underground, Nico knows why his powers haven’t been cooperating. The soldiers of where he’s been traveling were too Roman, too unlike what he knows how to truly control. However, shadows are universal, and this is what saves them as they step into the final battle.

It’s a bloody, hopeless encounter from the start. Gaia’s warrior is waiting, and they are forced to fight tooth and claw. Shadow against the Son and Daughter of Death, the Son of War, the Son of the Sky, and the daughters of Beauty and Riches. They’re all injured, they’re all desperately trying to _strike just once_ , to _land one hit._ If only Percy and Annabeth would wake up, then maybe everything would be okay.

There are no gods to help them this time. They’re watching from above, flicking their pawns around as they watch the final game play out. This time, they do not interfere. Hecate, their only hope, does not seem to aid in their desperate battle.

There is too much blood and the stone does nothing to stanch the never ending flow. The Doors are so close, _too_ close, and Nico can feel them on the other side. The hordes of monster that, if they ever make it out, will never be defeated.

They’ve made it, against all odds. They’re here, so close, but so damn far. Percy and Annabeth aren’t awake, and nobody else can land a hit.

He can feel the desperation in Percy’s bones, feel is as much as he feels the ache of exhaustion in his own. Dimmer, he can feel Annabeth. He doesn’t want either of them to die, and the thought of them doing so gives him a final burst of energy.

His Stygian sword takes on a mind of its own as he parries and strikes, landing a single strike on the shadow. It does nothing, and his lungs are heaving, his muscles are on fire, his mind is whirling with what he dreads is to come next, with what he _knows_ is to come.

But he fights anyway, Percy flashing in his eyes, his bones aching with what the son of Poseidon feels at this exact moment. Nico is in his element, but even here he is plagued with the wants and needs of others.

He makes it. There’s a heart-stopping moment of calm amidst the chaos. He catches the Doors open with the tip of his sword. Turning it flat, the doors open for a gap large enough so he can hold them open properly.

He can hear the shrieks of Gaia herself rumbling from the depths of the ground, he can see the rashes and burns across Percy and Annabeth’s bodies. He can see them gasping for all the air they have missed. Even out here, the smell of sulfur is sweeter than acidic taste Tartarus had given them, Nico knows this better than anybody else.

The Doors are still wide open, and he knows, he _knows_ they will not close from this side. He can’t wretch his gaze away, and all the memories are flooding back. The beaches of glass, the rivers of fire. His heart is already pumping faster and his legs have begun to tremble against his will.

_“Nico!”_ Hazel shrieks, and it is her voice that allows him to glance back. She’s clutching her ribs, pain contorting her face. He can hardly look at her without guilt smattering across his conscious.

Percy is beginning to sit up, still entangled with Annabeth. Nico’s heart clenches at that, wishes it could have been him that got them out of Tartarus, that kept him strong while everything else wanted them to fall. He feels tears prick at his eyes, and he wants to laugh that it is this, amid everything else, that makes him cry. He swipes them away.

“Nico-” Percy hisses as he struggles to stand. He can’t, Nico knows he can’t. He wants to help him up, wants to drag him from the wreckage of battle. “Don’t-”

He breaks away from the Doors for a brief moment, leaving his sword to hold them open, and he’s kissing Percy, and it’s rough and painful and he can taste the fire on Percy’s tongue and Percy _isn’t kissing back_ but that’s okay, because Nico’s got an eternity to imagine what it’d be like if he were.

He pulls away and says, “I’m sorry, I really am.”

It’s true, but that doesn’t stop him from dragging himself up, while Hazel is simultaneously manipulating the Mist and trying to stand. Gaia’s laugh is causing the core of the Earth itself to rumble, and Percy is looking incredibly confused while still half-entangled with Annabeth’s unconscious limbs. Nico can see her breathing, can feel her energy draining but not fast enough to mean death.

“I’m sorry,” He breathes again, lifting his sword and catching one of the doors with his foot before it shuts. He allows himself one last glance at the heroes he thinks, after all this, he can call friends.

At Jason, who commanding the winds to bring him as close as he can to the giant, where he kicks him in the face.

At Hazel, who was torn between the battle and Nico, despair etched across her features. She did not deserve this, Nico knows. It’s his fault for doing this to her.

At Frank, and at Piper, who are taking turns with their swords against the giant’s chest.

At Leo, who sends flashes of fire between the other demigods, filling every gap with a flame that doesn’t smoke. The shadows do not touch, the giant being too weak to truly battle anymore.

At Percy, who’s as white as a ghost and utterly baffled. His green eyes are dim but sparkling with tears- whether from Nico’s kiss or his experiences in Tartarus, Nico isn’t sure.

And maybe Nico’s selfish, leaving them there to fight the monsters off alone. But he knows the Doors cannot close without someone on the other side, and if they are left open all that lies within will soon escape.

He lets himself get one last look at Percy, and he mouths an apology he can only hope the Son of Poseidon can understand, and then he’s letting go of the elevator doors and they are sliding shut, leaving him to sink back down to the place he swore he’d never return. He has a long twelve minutes ahead, the last twelve minutes of his life, most likely.

Maybe they’ll defeat Gaia. Maybe they’ll come back and rescue him. Maybe they’ll care enough to try.

For now, Nico turns and faces the other door and slides down against the one that has just closed. He is too damn young for this, but his bones ache like the seventy year old man he’s supposed to be. He is too tired and too broken and so completely helpless that he allows himself to cry.

It makes him feel human, and he does not know how much longer that will be the case.

ix.

This is the way the world ends  
This is the way the world ends  
This is the way the world ends  
Not with a bang but a whimper.  
ix.

 

fin.

**Author's Note:**

> The poem quoted in italics is my favorite of all time, it's a piece by TS Eliot called 'The Hollow Men'. I've probably read it a thousand times, and yet this is the first time I've posted it as apart of a fic. 
> 
> I also made it have an alternate ending sort of thing, where the doors can't close unless somebody else is inside of them. 
> 
> also, one last thing. kairos, by definition is an ancient Greek word meaning the right or opportune moment (the supreme moment). of the two words used for 'time' in Greek, (chronos and kairos), the former refers to chronological or sequential time, while the latter signifies a time between, a moment of indeterminate time in which something special happens. i thought that would fitting. 
> 
> hope you enjoyed xoxo
> 
> my tumblr is danisnotofire.tumblr.com. if you'd like to message me, that's where i am! <3 thank you for reading!


End file.
